


The Best of You

by lizook12



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:36:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1541225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizook12/pseuds/lizook12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His breath hitches in his chest at the look of sheer pain and surprise swirling in her eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best of You

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow this evolved from one of EBR's tweets (really, I do not even know anymore) and some encouragement from my usual cohorts (you all are the worst; I love you). Enjoy! 
> 
> Thanks to **effie214** for the title suggestion. 
> 
> Aforementioned title is found in Billy Joel's _This Is The Time_

Gritting her teeth, she fixes the strap on her dress for the fourth time, tries to get her loose curls to hold just the way she wants as he wanders back into the bathroom, humming under his breath.

He stops next to her at the sink, distractedly tucking in his shirt as he watches her hands weave through her hair, the left strap of her dress slipping down her shoulder once more.

“What time does cocktail hour start again?” He smooths his shirt, deftly slides the thin band of fabric up her arm and into place, his fingers lingering at the top of her collarbone. “Not that I care, but—”

“But you’d like to investigate Towers if you have the chance.” She glances over her shoulder at him, lifting an eyebrow as he leans around her, grabbing a paper cup, and she resumes messing with her hair. “Cocktails start at seven, so we have about forty-five minutes, which is plenty of time. In fact, that’s enough time for me to slip those suspenders off, drag you back to bed, or at least the chaise, maybe the closest wall, and ri—”

She lets out a half curse, half gasp as her palm meets the hot curling iron.

It startles him so much that half the water flies out of the cup he’s holding, his breath hitching in his chest at the look of sheer pain and surprise swirling in her eyes.

“What do we do? Cold water? Warm water? Aloe???”

“Breathe.” She inhales sharply herself, hand shaking slightly as she turns her palm up. “We’ve been through worse than this.”

“Yeah, ok.”

Quickly, he snags a wash cloth from the shower, running it under cool water and gently pressing it to her palm. His other hand begins rummaging in the medicine cabinet, a relieved sigh fanning against her throat as he finds the hydrocortisone cream.

Turning so that he’s facing her, he slowing strokes the wash cloth over the red area before dropping it in the sink and unscrewing the cap of the balm. Lightly, he applies it to the burn, his brow furrowed as he watches his thumb stroke soft circles across her skin.

“It’s not...” She sighs, her side pressed against the edge of the vanity. “It’s not that bad.”      

“If it was any redder I’d be taking you to the ER.”

“I’m sure Molly would love to see us back so soon. And besides, I bet we’ll run into some doctor at this benefit.” Her mouth turns up in a half smile as he draws a Q across her palm, lets her hand fall, and she turns back to the mirror, carefully sliding her earrings into place.

“That’s probably true.” He settles next to her once more, foot tapping restlessly against the corner of the vanity. “Just so it’s not Danforth though.”

“Ugh, yes. He’d probably try to put me in a sling, stare down my dress the whole time, and I’d have to go karate on his ass.”

He laughs, shoulders relaxing slightly as he reaches back for his jacket. “You’d do it spectacularly and make a couple fans in the process, I bet.” Grinning, he slides into his jacket, begins messing with his bow tie.

Their eyes meet in the mirror for a long moment, teasing and trust and love arcing between them as she shakes her head and turns, straightening his tie. “There, all set.”

“No...” His fingers carefully splay over her wrist, lifting her hand, and he brushes his lips across her injured palm. "Now we’re set.”

A wave of heat flares down her spine and she sighs, glancing at the clock and unplugging the curling iron before following him down the hall. Grabbing the keys from their hook, she slips into her coat as he turns off the lights, holds the door open for her.

As usual when leaving for a benefit, his hands smooth over the waist of her jacket, arm falls across her shoulders, as she locks the door. There’s an underlying hum of tension in his breathing though, his fingers tapping against her hip, as she slips the keys into her purse and leans against him.

“Are you sure you’re up for going?” It’s a murmur—an exhale—into her hair.

“Yes...” Rocking up on her toes, she kisses his cheek. “But feel free to carry my purse...”

(He only puts it down once, to spin her across the floor and hold her close.)


End file.
